


Elegance of Honesty

by Jalules



Category: Gatchaman Crowds
Genre: Character Study, Clothing, Crushes, Developing Relationship, Exploration of identity, F/F, Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-02
Updated: 2013-10-02
Packaged: 2017-12-28 05:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/987974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jalules/pseuds/Jalules
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Utsutsu has never had any misconceptions about herself. She knows what she is, how she is designed. On Earth she is a prime example of deceptive coloration, a deadly poison with pretty petals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Elegance of Honesty

.

.

.

Utsutsu has never had any misconceptions about herself. She knows what she is, how she is designed. On Earth she is a prime example of deceptive coloration, a deadly poison with pretty petals.

She is small. She is fragile. She is very dangerous.

In the palm of one hand is a fearsome power, and even set against the life giving force that resides in the other, she is nothing short of terrifying.

Her comrades understand this. O.D handles her warmly, but carefully, laying a comforting touch on her shoulder, the top of her head, but never her hands. O.D has read her field guide, knows what is safe and what will stop the heart.

Humans don’t understand. They admire her, in elderly cooing, in teenaged smiles that teeter precariously between friendly and flirtatious, tip to infatuation, to lechery, far too fast. They reach out to her, in childish grabbing for long and tempting strands of hair, in guiding hands with good intentions, in selfish moves to sit a little closer.

She curls in tight on herself, in soft [cotton dresses](http://jalules.tumblr.com/post/62866816215/elegance-of-honesty-an-utsutsu-fic), in the most terrible disguises, and knows that every set of eyes will mistake her for a sweet thing, for a pretty [bauble](http://jalules.tumblr.com/post/62866816215/elegance-of-honesty-an-utsutsu-fic), for something that cannot reach out and strike them dead.

She covers her hands with her sleeves, a thin, threaded defense against an inevitable accident, or worse, something intentional, and feels worried, feels angry, because not a single person on this planet knows how scattered, how fractured, how far reaching her touch truly is.

Part of her wants to warn them, while another, a tiny, cold sliver of herself in some distant place, thinks that they should know better.

She hates to think that anyone will get what they deserve.

.

She realizes, one night, curled beside O.D and taking up the magazines that they have already finished and put down, that perhaps she can wear a warning after all.

From the pages of a heavy, foreign fashion magazine, girls with huge, staring eyes and curling lashes gaze out at her. Dressed in strips of delicate fabric, in the most expensive scraps, they form broken poses, look detached. They are fierce in places, aggressive in the set of their mouths, the violent curl of their fingers. In others they are barely there, just arching backs and parted lips. They are beautiful, and slightly sad, and Utsutsu feels a throb of pain in her heart to see them, breathes in a rush of air, suddenly aware, excited at a revelation.

She flips from one page to the next, back again, holding the high-gloss pages delicately between two fingers, studying the far away expressions, the sharp angles, the silk and lace that the figures fade away behind.

She is fading away, she thinks. In soft cotton dresses she may be swallowed up.

These girls are small. They are fragile. They are also, she thinks, probably dangerous.

The longer she stares, the less they seem like girls, more like paper dolls. They are distant, untouchable, flesh and blood art installations seen from afar, flattened to two dimensions. One model is a near copy of the next, of the next, of the next, and she hates them, she loves them, she wants to be just as beautiful and barely there.

.

The next morning she asks O.D to take her shopping.

Bypassing racks of flowing skirts, of button up tops, she zeroes in on nylon and silk, on lace details and tiny ribbons.

When she steps out of a dressing room in the smallest bits of sleek, black fabric, expressionless, waiting, she is not disappointed.

The passing shoppers stop and stare, they turn and gasp. They look at her like something unknown, an alien.

Even O.D is surprised, just slightly. They laugh a little, try to explain that it suits her, but that people on this planet don’t usually dress that way, and Utsutsu shakes her head.

She knows. She knows that she does not look normal. She stands out, a tiny high-gloss photo come to life, not a person at all, and people will be shocked, will be offended, will be upset.

Some may try to touch her, in concern, in arrogance, under the foolish, awful assumption that they have the right, although she is now so clearly something _not to be touched._

But not a single one will reach for her hand.

.

.

When Hajime comes to join them, she brings with her layers. Layers of paper, of fabric, of unbridled enthusiasm that unfold before them, each outburst brighter than the last.

Utsutsu doesn’t understand how anyone can be _so_ _much_ all at once. She thinks that if she tried to get all of herself together, in folds on folds on folds, the way Hajime exists, she would collapse. She can only see layers of dark, of dull, half-formed and translucent, a series of fuzzy black and white copies that stack up to make a mess.

She’s better off on full display, spread out and joined at the hands, a bunch of pretty paper dolls with sharp little edges. She snatches her hands away from Hajime’s eager fingers, stands like a mannequin as she’s embraced.

Handle with care, she thinks, for her own sake, for others, but Hajime will have none of it.

She loves aggressively, not just Utsutsu but everyone and everything, arms wide open and singing the praises of the world. She is three dimensional, always in motion, a complex and beautiful thing. She surges forward when Utsutsu pulls away, constantly offering more of herself in exchange for nothing.

Hajime dresses Utsutsu in layers. She piles on compliments, wraps her in affection. She covers her in colorful blankets, in warm, dry coats, in bright little bows cut from her own skirt. Hajime _sheds_ layers and never seems to lose herself, drags them back on and is never overwhelmed.

She is foolish and trusting, even knowing the dangers that her outlook poses. She comes too close and holds on too tight, ignoring the blatant warning signs Utsutsu has posted across the whole of herself, _danger, do not touch_.

Hajime knows the threat in Utsutsu’s hands, the threads of worry, of anger, of heavy sadness that hold her together. She recognizes and chooses to ignore it, only seeing the good, the possibilities of better things. She pulls Utsutsu along with her, presses tiny paper creations into her hands, and when nothing withers and dies, she beams in victory.

Utsutsu’s face goes pink when Hajime looks at her. It’s a sign of life she cannot hide. With heat in her face, she doesn’t seem so paper thin. She couldn’t disappear if she tried, looks too normal, too happy, to keep anyone away.

In soft cotton dresses, in patterned tights and wide brimmed hats, Utsutsu walks along beside a carefree explosion of color, an intricate fold of a person, studying. For all her layers, Hajime isn’t hiding anything. There is danger in her too, as there is in any living thing. She has the power to hurt, to kill, though she would never use it. She heals and she helps and she doesn’t come with a warning sign.

 _I’m Hajime_ , she says, stating the truth as blatantly as possible, and what else could she possibly be?

Utsutsu practices in the mirror at home, in simple slips of black fabric, _I’m Utsutsu,_ in cute bows that bob in her hair like an angler fish’s light, _I’m Utsutsu_ , in borrowed button down pajamas two sizes too big, ones with little white birds printed through the fabric and they still smell like Hajime, make her heart pound as she breaths against their sleeves, dangerous hands covered, _I’m Utsutsu._

.

When they go into battle, Ustutsu wears simple black heels, ones she chose for their similarity to O.D’s.

She wears a bikini, the one Hajime says is cute.

If people stare, if they are shocked, she doesn’t notice. A city is crumbling and she has lives to save.

She spreads her wings in a splash of toxic color, a brighter warning than any creature could naturally muster. Not a single person runs from her, and she loves each one of them a little bit for it. With one hand she proves her danger, her power, offers protection, and through it all she does so much more good than harm.

Hajime cheers her on, fighting side by side, nearly hand in hand, and Utsutsu cannot remember feeling _so much_ before. Even split apart, she feels whole, feels each layer of herself align, forming something bright and beautiful. She wonders, as she works, what people are supposed to wear on dates, and what Hajime would look like wearing less than usual.

She blushes a layer of heat, of color, and does not at all wish for it to disappear.

.

.

.

 


End file.
